By Dan McQuade
By Brian McManus
By Hilary Hughes
By Jena Ardell
By Brian McManus
By Chaz Kangas
By Sound of the City
By Peter Gerstenzang
If you think New York makes you stressy, just listen to Thomas Jefferson, from his Notes on the State of Virginia: "The mobs of great cities add just so much to the support of the government as sores do to the strength of the human body. . . . Let our workshops remain in Europe." What Jefferson had in mind, as quoted in Joseph Rykwert's A Seduction of Place, was "a square of building alternating with woodland." The suburbs, in other words.
Cities, you see, are full of people like Mike Skinner: English, modern, urban, lazy, and they're never in the workshops where they're supposed to be. Doing musical business now as the Streets, Skinner flips Jefferson a bird with the cover of his debut, Original Pirate Material: a huge white block of council flats looming in the night. Completing our sociological dig, Skinner posed for the July issue of British music mag Qeating takeout doner and drinking lager. Twenty-first-century geezer, flat rat, dole baby, down the pub till Beckham turns to dust.
Skinner's first person narratives are so allergic to exaggeration that his filing with U.S. hip-hop (still selling the real and delivering the fantasy) can only be attributed to the fact that he chooses talking over singing. Calling him garage or two-step doesn't work much better. Skinner's backing tracks stand on two-step's skinny legs, but he's talking all the time, and that's a dancefloor buzzkiller. Original Pirate Materialis England's first great hip-hop record mostly because it isn't a hip-hop record. It's hard to say exactly what it is. Skinner's tracks work more like the graphics behind TV newscasters, declaring sponsorship and changing only when the story changes. Skinner doesn't play off his rhythms muchand since he uses the same pace and cadence for every song, you'd be forgiven for thinking that he recorded his vocals without ever hearing the beats. This feels less like disdain for music itself than for the prettifying that music can effect. Above everything else, Skinner wants to be straight with you.
Rightsoftshoe and character are just posh artifices, so let's stay democratic and give the people the floor, represented here by citizen Jack Webb of the U.K., posting on Amazon: "Each track consists of an either senseless or boring tune and a techno-ish drum loop backed by some obviously too-bored-to-work, cockney teenager talking about [homosexuals], newsagents, pubs, beers, shagging birds, etc."
Skinner's approach to The Album, as a serial narrative experience, invites this kind of dismissal. He's after the texture of flatness itself, of urban life, of a TV screen: crisp and sharp but without any dynamic movement. Laziness is about all he brags about. Skinner's life seems to verge on absolute stasis, like a character in one of Michel Houellebecq's dystopian novels, popular right now in England. (Coincidence?) Skinner orders in, drinks joylessly, wonders if friends are simply soldiers of convenience. He rhymes as if he's on the carpet, using up his nighttime cell minutes, waiting for the dawn to bring his dole check. He doesn't drop his first comic narrative ("Too Much Brandy," self-explanatory) until track eight, and coupled with "The Irony of It All," it proves Skinner to be one funny geezer, but laffs are not his thing. Skinner finds everyday life pretty goddamn fascinating all by itself. And so do we, especially when it's someone else's.
The most repeated word on the whole album isn't "fuck" or "flip" or "hot" or "vodie oh vodie": It's "geezer." That indicates not a high testosterone level but Skinner's research topic. The pullquote from "Has It Come to This?" is "sex, drugs and on the dole," but Skinner seems expert only about the lattermost. His advocacy of "football and smut" in "Same Old Thing" is more convincing than his allegation in "Let's Push Things Forward" that "around here, we say birds, not bitches." His one "birds" song is "It's Too Late," a love-gone-wrong tune happily unburdened by acrimony or misogyny. Skinner worries about the relationship"I thought things were OK"and even sings a little for the chorus, which aligns him momentarily with sensitive U.S. indie hip-hop types like Slug and Aesop Rock, but back home, Skinner is an old-fashioned pop star. (That may reveal more about economies of scale on island nations than it does about taste.) "Don't Mug Yourself" is Skinner's tough-guy advice on birds ("your head's getting blurred") but it's still predicated on the fact that he "can't stop thinking of her." That's not very hip-hop, is it? (For those still committed to hardness, he does say earlier that he'd be willing to shag a girl.)
It gets even less American. In "Geezers Need Excitement," Skinner talks himself out of a fight with someone, and his idea of a battle rhyme is pretty polite: "The jury found unanimously against you," from "Sharp Darts." All of which makes you wonder why people have mooted Skinner as the English Eminem. Both pretty boys and good enunciators, they're otherwise unlike, in several ways. Skinner is an idea guy, uninterested in the burrowing syncopation that drives Eminem's word choice. Rather than hawk evidence of his uniqueness, Skinner wants to make clear that he's simply one of a larger social group. He doesn't do role-playing, except for "The Irony of It All," a hoot and one of the best tracks, but before it's funny, it's a carefully scripted dramatization of two social groupsthe lad and the studentclashing. (Europeans do types; Americans do family.) Skinner doesn't have a crazy alias and isn't particularly angry or conceited. So how much more non-American can "hip-hop" get before we cry uncle?